


The Way You Handle Your Gun

by Paraxdisepink



Category: due South
Genre: Fluff, M/M, hair fetish, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/pseuds/Paraxdisepink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fraser can’t stop thinking about sex and Ray K loves him homo-erectionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You Handle Your Gun

Lately, Fraser couldn’t stop thinking about sex. He was beginning to wonder if it were due to some side effect of one of the numerous chemicals poisoning the processed food he could not seem to avoid, or perhaps something in the abominable drinking water. If substances could cause impotence, depression, anxiety, and a hundred other ills, then it followed that they could cause randiness as well, even if he had never heard of such a thing. Well, there had been the time Innusiq’s sister June had found that leaf and had ended up staring hot-eyed at every boy in the village, himself included, but Fraser had been willing to pin that on teenage hormones.  
   
“Face it,aser, you’re horny,” Ray had told him only yesterday – purred it in his ear, rather – after he couldn’t stop grabbing Ray from behind while he was trying to put away groceries. It was his black leather jacket that had done it, the way it clung to him as he moved, making him look like a Halloween cat, and the smell of it . . . Fraser couldn’t stop leaning close to Ray’s neck and breathing it in. But then the idea of Ray _putting away_ something had even seemed erotic in itself, perhaps due to the way his slender body stretched to shove the cereal on the top shelf of the cabinet or the play of light over his wild hair as he bent to stack cans of Spaghettios next to the soup and pork and beans. And when he had slammed the freezer shut, stocked fresh with TV dinners – that had seemed the perfect place to pin Ray, get his hands under that short jacket, and indulge in his mouth and his smooth, hot skin all at the same time.  
   
It was embarrassing, not to mention indecent and a little pathetic. The lack of restraint did not become a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and Fraser dreaded to imagine what his father thought. Well, in point of fact he didn’t care, not much anyway – he was a grown man and had to go his own course with or without his father’s approval. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had asked _him_ what he thought of his sewing his wild oats with Maggie’s mother, and the man was dead in any case. It was what Ray thought that worried him. Fraser didn’t need his partner thinking him more of a “freak” than he already did. The last thing he wanted was to scare Ray away with his incessant carnal urges.   
   
Yesterday with the groceries, Ray had ended up pushing him down into one of his dining room chairs, smoothly sliding one leg over him and straddling his lap, the worn denim of his jeans pulling tight across the bulge between his legs. Fraser’s hands had gone straight to Ray’s zipper, while his mouth went for Ray’s neck, stroking and sucking until Ray groaned half coherently in his ear, shifting his weight from foot to foot and grinding his erection into Fraser’s palm in an urgent little dance that brought to mind the wily ladies at the risqué clubs he and Vecchio had once had the misfortune of venturing into. To his utter shame, he pictured Ray – Ray Kowalski – with high spiked heels and painted eyes and perhaps nothing else but his black leather holster and would have apologized profusely for degrading him so had he not been distracted by the scrape of stubble against his cheek and the pressure of Ray’s legs around him.  
   
And there, along with the fridge, went the dining room as the newest addition in a long list of things in Ray’s apartment to become estranged from their intended purpose. The couch had regrettably been the first casualty, the place where Fraser had become convinced that he would not survive returning to the frozen north alone after tasting the heat of Ray’s mouth, that swallowing semen could be a spiritually furthering experience, and that in certain circumstances cries of “yes, Fraser, yes! Stop and I’ll put a cap in you!” were more gratifying than all the medals in the world.   
   
The dining room encounter had not been the end of it, of course. Ray had invited him to bed – no loss there since the proper purpose of which _was_ “doing the wild thing,” as Ray put it, and not sleeping – and after more than an hour of testing how much he could make Ray laugh and squirm without straining anything, they had lain sweaty and light-headed while Ray watched some terribly violent and obscene show called Oz on one of the premium networks he couldn’t live without. Fraser, for his part, had been unable to keep from dancing his fingers over the soft fuzz on Ray’s chest and sneaking the occasional kiss to his ear, his jaw, his temple, wishing he were not so absorbed in the show so Fraser might find out if it were in fact possible to bring him to orgasm simply by kissing him.  
   
“What’s with you, Fraser?” Ray lifted his head from his chest during a Governor Devlin segment – a character Ray detested. By all appearances, he was too sleepy to drive, his eyelids drooping, and Fraser understood that meant he would be staying the night yet again, to which he absolutely had no objections. “You got this thing with my neck today.”  
   
Color crept into Fraser’s cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was holding Ray so close, his tongue straying idly from the soft spot behind Ray’s ear down the side of his neck to where the collar of his coat had touched earlier. Fraser could still smell the intoxicating scent of leather, and if he closed his eyes he could see the leather wrinkling and shining dully as Ray moved about his kitchen.  Fraser cleared his throat, so mortified by his persistence he could scarcely look Ray in the eye in the blue light of the TV screen. He was incorrigible. Perhaps someone had slipped something in his tea.  
   
“I’m sorry, Ray . . . I . . .”  
   
“’Sorry,’” Ray snickered, getting comfortable against Fraser’s chest again and tugging the sweat-soaked sheet over the two of them. He must have been tired indeed not to tease him too badly, but after a moment his pink and so very soft lips curved in a grin. “It’s just weird seeing a guy like you think with his dick.”  
   
“I have a dick,” Fraser countered before he realized what he was repeating. The heat in his face deepened. The word “dick” was embarrassingly juvenile, but it irked him to he thought of as a passionless slab of stone in a uniform, especially by Ray who ought to know better.  
   
Ray’s grin broadened in the dull light, and under his breath he muttered, “I got him to say ‘dick,’” chuckling like the poorly drawn cartoons on the Beavis & Butthead show he seemed to believe was quality programming. Louder, in a decidedly sarcastic tone, he said, “Really, Fraser? I gotta check that one out for myself. I’m a see it with my own eyes kinda guy.”  
   
Fraser made to tell him there was hardly need to be so testy, but Ray was writhing his way down, the pale cotton of the sheet falling back from his shoulders. Warm hands came to Fraser’s hips, and he held his breath, his eyes seeking Ray’s. Ray dropped his gaze almost shyly, muttering “I can do it, I can suck a cock” nearly too softly to be heard over the TV, and when his mouth wrapped tight around him Fraser found himself agreeing emphatically that yes, yes he could.  
   
Fraser drew a long, measured breath to clear his head. Practice at lowering his heart rate came in handy at the oddest times, only it did not seem to be working now. Normally, the post-orgasmic tingles would have long since subsided after the fourteen hours since Ray’s lovely mouth had drained him of his cognitive faculties, but his appetites these days could hardly be called normal. Frantic and obsessive were more like it, manic even. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Ray’s head between his legs, his eyes closed and his tongue . . .  
   
Dear, oh dear.   
   
Perhaps _he_ should be the one in the shower now instead of Ray. Icy cold water had to be some help in stopping certain appendages below the waist from trying to push through his trousers. But that line of thinking only conjured up the image of a very unclothed Ray and the warm water undoubtedly streaming down his body at that very moment, beyond the door where Fraser could not see. Last week – at 6:04 in the a.m. to be exact – the shower had ceased to become a place for washing and instead became the place where he licked water from Ray’s skin and held him steady against the cold wet tile so he wouldn’t slip with all his squirming. In light of that, a shower wasn’t likely to help at all.   
   
Snow. Fraser leaned his head back against the hallway wall and tried instead to picture snow – vast, white, and impossibly cold blankets of arctic snow stretching for miles and miles. He imagined his blood pressure dropping and his body succumbing to the elements, his legs and everything else below the waist going numb, and then his arms, slowly falling into sleep . . .  
   
The bathroom door burst open, and Ray shot out like a fireball, melting the snow away.  
   
“I’m going to kick him in the head. I’m going to hunt Frankford down in prison and kick him in the head. Do you hear me, Fraser?”  
   
“I hear you, Ray,” Fraser snapped to attention, jarred out of his rather relaxing reverie. His eyes opened to the sight of Ray in the doorway, his legs and upper body bare and gleaming with the sheen of water, his more tempting parts unfortunately censored by a large blue towel wrapped about his waist – ridiculous given that they were both adults, even Dief in the living room.   
   
Ray was scowling at his right arm, wrapped in clear plastic to protect the cast reaching all the way to his elbow. “Six weeks with this thing on.” He ripped the plastic off and threw it to the tiled floor already littered with clothing and the contents of his coat pockets. “How the hell am I supposed to do anything?”  
   
He turned to the mirror in despair, touching the wet blond hair clinging flat to his forehead with his good hand. Fraser had a suggestion or two, but not wanting to appear insensitive to Ray’s predicament, he confined himself to staring – admiring, rather. Once, he had read a book about clothing during the Victorian era describing how items such as a lady’s glove or stocking had become fetishized due to their concealing nature and the border they created between exposed and unexposed flesh. The towel and cast had much the same effect. Fraser’s eyes followed a bead of water as it trailed from Ray’s neck all the way down his spine only to slip inside the blue cotton and vanish from view. His mouth went dry imagining the towel falling away so he could sink to his knees and catch that single drop with his tongue, just before it slid over the curve of Ray’s decidedly pleasing backside. And perhaps his tongue might venture a little lower and . . .  
   
There he went again. He would have slapped his own face had it done any good. Perhaps someone had put a spell on him. He and Ray certainly had had more than one run-in with the Voodun community. Why else would he be so selfish and shallow as to ogle Ray while he was miserable in that cast, not to mention bristling? Ray, as Fraser had learned during an incident involving an individual named Kuzma, did not take to injuries in the line of duty well. They seemed to represent – irrationally, Fraser thought – a weakness or loss of control on Ray’s part, regardless of having chased an armed bank-robber on foot for five city blocks and managing to overwhelm him despite being half his weight and sporting a broken arm. Well, Fraser rubbed his brow, perhaps his ardor today was not so ill-placed. He _was_ relieved that Ray had not been shot instead. Frankford had carried a gun and seemed determined to go down fighting.  
   
“You gonna help or stand there like a big red cardboard dummy?”  
   
Fraser blinked. Ray was watching him over his shoulder, his back stiff and his hands on the counter. He looked . . . poised, enticingly so, his blue eyes still shining with some of the fight from earlier. Fraser cleared his throat and slid up behind him in half a heartbeat, the situation in his trousers not helped in the least by the proximity.  
   
Ray bent his head and yanked open a drawer overflowing with everything from socks to gum wrappers, ready to tear the bathroom apart and add more clutter to the floor. But before he could, Fraser snatched what he was obviously looking for from beneath a washcloth on the countertop. He really should organize his things better – or Fraser did, to keep his mind off . . . other activities.   
   
“Comb?”  
   
“Yeah thanks.” Ray took the black plastic and pushed his hair back from his face with his left hand, reaching for the blow dryer – safely plugged into a GFI outlet – with the other. Unfortunately the plaster cast prevented his arm from bending enough to reach very far, and he gave up with a sigh. “I can’t do this, Fraser.” His shoulders sagged in an attitude of defeat as he set the comb down.  
   
Fraser smiled. Defeat was certainly uncharacteristic of Ray, but the day had been . . . trying. He gently pried Ray’s hand from the blow dryer, turned the setting on low, and let the fingers of his free hand push damp feathery locks away from Ray’s forehead. Ray’s hair softened almost instantly once the heat hit it, and Fraser found himself transfixed on the blond strands sticking up between his fingers, catching the light above them. He thought of the way Ray’s hair tickled his chin when they curled up on the couch together, or better yet whenever he bent to read over Ray’s shoulder at the station. Ray would casually lean back, and later when he was alone in his office Fraser would savor the sweet scent of gel on his tunic, impatient to be out of his uniform before he sullied it shoving his hand in his boxers and spilling bodily fluids in a twitching fit of pleasure.  
   
“Okay, enough heat, Fraser. Dry it not fry it.”  
   
Fraser felt himself turning roughly the color of his tunic that his distraction had become so obvious. Addiction came in all forms, and it would seem he had the signs of one. “Terribly sorry, Ray.” He cast his gaze about for the gel and found it under a wrinkled black Chicago Bulls t-shirt in one corner of the counter, the one he had peeled off Ray during their first encounter on the couch. A wave of heat coursed through him to remember Ray panting his name as he got a hold of the pulsing length of him and stroked and stroked.    
   
“You know what you’re doing?” Ray eyed him warily as Fraser squeezed a great pink glob onto his palm and rubbed his hands together to get them good and sticky – Ray and sticky hands did seem to go together. The gel’s clean scent hit his nose and Fraser gritted his teeth as the throbbing in his loins gained strength. It was no longer the scent of a simple hair product, but one he associated with frantic solitary orgasms in the dark of the consulate, riddled with guilt and embarrassment and a sense of perversion he feared would repulse Ray if he ever found out, and of course the more delightful mutual orgasms from Ray burying his face in his shoulder and thrusting against him for all he was worth.   
   
“I’ve watched you many times.” Fraser tried to concentrate on the present, both hands slick, coming up to Ray’s hair. It was no less than truth, and he closed his eyes as he took the soft strands between his fingers and sculpted upward, shaping them in the seemingly wild pattern that spoke of precision if you looked closely enough. That was Ray, Ray Ray Ray, and Fraser’s hands lingered in a caress as he pushed the sticky strands one way and then the other.  
   
“Gets you kinda hot, huh?” Ray was grinning at him in the mirror, his voice soft. Fraser hadn’t realized he had pressed so close, his chest against Ray’s back and his skin itching beneath the heavy wool of his uniform. He ducked his head and tried to stop his fingers from tracing up and down each little spike he had made, tried to ignore the scent of gel and its effect on his nether regions.   
   
“I’m sorry, Ray.” He lowered his hands sheepishly. Perhaps he should see a doctor, or failing that a psychiatrist, or perhaps the air pollution was to blame. The quality of the city air was appalling, the full scope of potential side effects as of yet undetermined.  
   
Ray snorted, but his smile returned when he studied Fraser’s handiwork in the mirror. He touched it tentatively with his good hand. “That’s – that looks good.” He sounded surprised. “That looks really good. Maybe there’s hope for you after all, Fraser.”  
   
Fraser’s answering grin looked ridiculous and more than a little pathetic, and the crimson flaring in his cheeks hardly helped, nor did the pounding between his legs. His hands felt deprived at his sides, and when he surveyed the carefully gelled and finger-combed arrangement before him, he could only think of touching again, feeling the cool gel harden and the heat from Ray’s scalp. Worse, he felt Ray taking all this in as he watched him in the glass.  
   
“So yesterday it was my neck and now it’s my hair?”   
   
“Well it’s always been your hair, Ray,” Fraser countered before he thought better of it. The admission earned him an arch of Ray’s rather graceful eyebrow, and Fraser went on to explain. “My friend Ray Vecchio once said a man’s hair revealed a great deal about him.”  
   
Ray lowered his head and sniggered that “Vecchio’s a nutjob,” but in the next moment he was turning, resting both hands on the counter behind him and leaning back, displaying his chest and his nipples tight with . . .   
   
He was speaking. Fraser reminded himself that it would be impolite not to listen.  
   
“Oh yeah? What’s mine say about me?” It had the ring of a challenge, with a threat somewhere in there if he did not like the answer.  
   
Fraser cleared his throat for what felt like the tenth time, though not out of wariness. The tip of one thickly gelled spike had curled slightly, and Fraser fancied wrapping it around his finger and . . . Perhaps a doctor _and_ the psychiatrist, and perhaps an Inuit Elder if it were possible to get in touch with one.  
   
“Well that you’re excitable, for one.” His voice came low and a little breathy, his hand moving as he spoke in a need to occupy itself before it did something untoward. “And one might say perpetually on edge, and . . .”  
   
Ray’s eyes were moving over him, drinking in his agitation and the flush to his skin, blue and hot when they fixed on his. He leaned closer with a deliberate, provoking smile. “Erect?” he finished for him, a distinct low roughness in his voice.  
   
Fraser could no longer stand it. He took Ray by the shoulders, turned him around him and pressed him to the wall behind him. Ray responded to aggression, and when Fraser crushed their mouths together it was simply instinct for him to give as good as he got. He only had the one arm of course, but it wasn’t as though he were attempting to fend him off. Far from it, he was gripping the red serge at Fraser’s shoulder, mouth hungry and obliging as it moved against his, his erection pressing into Fraser’s thigh between the heavy cotton towel and the thick folds of his trousers.   
   
It was maddening. Fraser went for his own buttons, smearing gel onto his tunic in his haste to remove the garment before he melted inside it. He shrugged out of one arm and then the other and let it fall to the floor in a heavy heap, unclipping his braces just as hurriedly. When they slipped away he got both arms around Ray’s back, yanking him close and pushing their hips together.   
   
“Fraser . . . “ Ray was twisting in his grasp, the hot pressure of his mouth gone. He wedged a hand between them and grabbed a fistful of Fraser’s white henley, pushing him back. “Fraser, slow down. I only got one hand here.”  
   
Fraser gulped in air, opening his eyes to see Ray’s face flushed, his mouth open and his eyes shining like blue crystal. He was breathing hard, from the kiss Fraser realized had been overly enthusiastic, and more importantly was trying to free his injured arm from Fraser’s crushing embrace.  
   
“I’m sorry, Ray,” He loosened his grip so Ray could hold his cast safely out of reach. “I seem to be . . .” He could not think of an explanation, other than to state the obvious that his self control had gone out the window with Ray so hot and clean-smelling and the slightest bit slippery in Fraser’s hold from the water and the gel smeared on his skin. His head bent for another kiss, his tongue pushing between Ray’s lips and his sticky hand sliding down Ray’s narrow back to seize the edge of the towel. He stopped himself before he clawed it away, clinging to at least some modicum of decency. “Maybe you should arrest me.” He muttered against Ray’s mouth, his voice steamy and low in his ears above the pounding of his pulse. “Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense.”  
   
Ray expelled a shaking breath that was most definitely not a laugh, his body tightening under Fraser’s hand. “Ooooh you’d like that,” The taunt vibrated against Fraser’s lips in a hot cloud of breath and the fingers on his henley loosened, only for Ray to start on the buttons much, much too slowly on account of being one-handed. For that, Fraser was sorely tempted to find Frankford and deal him a swift kick of his own. “Keep it up and I might just break out the cuffs,” Ray mouthed at his cheek, driving him to distraction with the rough catch in the words and the scrape of stubble.   
   
“Understood,” Fraser panted. At that moment he would have agreed to any condition Ray set – well, provided it was legal, of course. Ray’s long, nimble fingers yanked his henley out of his trousers and once Fraser helped him pull it over his head, that too went to the floor on top of his tunic. He wondered if he were absorbing some of Ray’s habits – the messiness, the tendency toward haphazard clutter . . . but worry gave way to a hot shudder when Ray’s hand seized the back of his neck.   
   
He all but ground their mouths together, his head angling this way and that as if hungry for the fullest contact. The sounds he made, the soft little grunts, were maddening, and with the scent of gel so strong between them Fraser could not help sliding a hand up to the sticky, half wet mess of spikes atop Ray’s head, imagining them standing up all the more with the intensity of his arousal as though electrified.   
   
“Do not touch, Fraser!” Ray broke off the kiss with a abruptness that nearly made Fraser jump. “I like it. Don’t mess it up.”  
   
Fraser grinned what must have been a very sloppy grin, his lips tingling from the heat of Ray’s mouth. “Well, I could always . . .” His fingers combed through the gel, all the way down until they brushed the shorter, softer spikes at the nape of Ray’s neck. He was bound to need more help with his hair over the next six weeks, and the notion of being part of another’s daily ritual only heightened Fraser’s arousal, stranger to intimacy that he was.   
   
Ray dodged out of his hold, darting around him with his familiar lightning quickness, kicking his shirt aside and bending to retrieve something from the floor. “You asked for it.” He held up a pair of shining silver handcuffs that must have been in his pocket, and Fraser stared in dizzy amazement as Ray snapped them around his wrists with the same dangerous efficiency he used with armed suspects. “What are you gonna do now, Benton?” He took him by the shoulders and turned him around, shoving him against the wall and stretching up in his face the way he did when he wanted to fight. Only, at the moment, fighting was clearly far from his mind. “Think you’re good, huh? Tossing the injured guy around like a big sack of potatoes.”  
   
Fraser wet his lips, testing his bonds. The metal was cool in contrast to the burning everywhere else, and he thought that if he dislocated his thumb he could easily slip free of them. But that would hardly be sporting, and after his behavior over the last twenty-four hours reprisal was definitely in order.  
   
“Terribly sorry, Ray.” His throat was dry, his eyes fixing on that wolfish and all too pleased grin mere inches away. “You have my full cooperation.”  
   
“Yeah, I bet I do.” Ray’s head bent, and this time his mouth settled on Fraser’s jaw, taking his time tracing with the tip of his tongue. It was frustrating. Fraser’s hands twisted in the cuffs behind his back. He wanted to pull Ray closer, but all he could do was smell the heat and wetness and arch his head back with a helpless moan, strongly doubting Diefenbaker could be budged from Jerry Springer long enough to get the keys and free him if he called out in Inuktitut.  
   
Ray’s mouth dropped to his neck, wet and hard and most definitely hungry. Fraser shivered at the brush of his hair against his chin, his hands straining with the ungentlemanly urge to grab Ray and perhaps further that discussion on lascivious . . .  
   
“Like that, huh?” Ray purred against his throat, his labored breath stinging skin already prickling from the imprint of his mouth.  
   
Fraser nodded. “It tickles.”  
   
That elicited a grunt, or perhaps a half laugh, and before he knew it Ray was opening his trousers, tugging on the zipper with a little more force than necessary. “Always thought they were stupid,” he muttered as the dark blue cloth bunched around his boots, and then he was close again, rubbing his face against Fraser’s shoulder, the top of his chest. No, not his face, his hair, leaving a damp trail of gel in his wake. Fraser squeezed his eyes shut, biting into his lip. He heard Ray’s knees bump softly on the floor tiles and felt the gentle heat of breath fanning over his belly while he stood there with his hands cuffed behind his back in nothing but his boots and his boxers.   
   
“Ray . . .” He wanted to reach out, wanted contact, and Ray obliged him by tugging his boxers down and resting the side of his face against his belly. Fraser gave a little shiver at the tickle of hair again, the stickiness, only for Ray to let out a quiet laugh and murmur, “you’re a nympho, Fraser.” Fraser made to apologize, fearing he had become just that, but the tightening of his muscles forced him to bite his tongue instead as Ray began rubbing his head into his stomach like an affectionate pet. Well, strictly speaking Fraser had never had a pet. Diefenbaker would be indignant to be thought of in that light, and before Fraser knew it he was thrusting with his lower body, eager for Ray to move further down.  
   
He did, burying his face in the curve of his hip, tantalizingly close to the cock straining for whatever contact with him it might have. Fraser shifted impatiently from foot to foot in a manner more characteristic of Ray than a member of the RCMP, too far gone with arousal for embarrassment that Ray took notice.  
   
“Want something, Fraser?” his partner breathed, the fingers of his good hand coming up to dance along his hipbone, softly tracing a line or perhaps a pattern of some sort, or something else calculated to compound Fraser’s torture. Even in this, Ray played at bad cop very well, or perhaps naughty boy, in which case Fraser was sorely tempted to take him over his knee and spank him. “Something you keep jumping on me hoping you’ll get?”  
   
Fraser squeezed his eyes tighter, vaguely alarmed by this rapid descent into sexual deviance. But Ray was dragging his mouth down, over his thigh where all the muscles clenched as Fraser shivered against the sharp jolt of pleasure shooting through the pit of his stomach. It was the sticky prickle of Ray’s hair again, soft spikes sliding against the underside of his neglected cock. Something he wanted . . . He thought again of all those times he’d carried the scent of Ray home with him, and the lonely pleasure stolen when the Consulate was empty. He swallowed.  
   
“Ray . . .” He ran his tongue over lips that were much too dry, opening his eyes and finding Ray staring up at him above the pool his boxers and trousers had made. His eyes were wild, thoroughly enjoying this little abuse of authority, his mouth pink and his hair not mussed in the least. Fraser sucked in a breath to clear his pounding head long enough to find the words. “Penetrate me,” he begged in a voice so thick it should have added to the heat in the room.  
   
Ray snapped to his feet in an instant, as if declaring this was not a game anymore, dropping the towel and drawing in a long shaking breath as if trying to control himself. “Yeah, yeah,” he nodded fiercely. “I can do that. I can do that.”  
   
“Yes you can, Ray,” Fraser turned – inexperienced he may be, but he knew _that_ much about the matter at hand. He heard Ray rummaging through the drawer behind him, tearing off the wrapper of one of the prophylactic devices a man like him was wont to have on hand. There was the rattling of keys, and then the cold metal of the cuffs fell away, and Fraser braced both hands against the wall before him now that they were free. His body tensed with anticipation when Ray’s hand came to his hips, his fingers hot and perhaps tight with nervousness or hesitation. Fraser swallowed once more, his face burning with embarrassment and arousal and his lower body throbbing from having waited long enough.   
   
“You can, Ray,” he said again. The hard length of him pressed into Fraser from behind and his feet instinctively shifted further apart. “You have a certain poise, a certain way you move, a certain way you handle your . . .”  
   
“Fraser!”  
   
Ray slammed into him, quick and rough and for a moment tearing. Fraser gritted his teeth and held onto the wall, nerve endings on fire around the hardness pushing into him. He could not distinguish whether it was pleasure or pain burning through his body, and frankly did not care. It was union and catharsis and connection and a hundred other things he hadn’t realized he needed. It was . . . well it was Ray, thrust onto him in a burst of energy where there seemed no room inside and he had no choice but to reshape himself in order for him to fit, and when he did it was like nothing he had experienced previously.  
   
Once he recovered from the shock, Ray felt delightfully slick and hot inside him. Fraser arched his head back with a soft cry of “Ray . . .” as he pushed back for more, earning a sharp exhalation of breath over the back of his neck and a low groan. Ray’s hand came around Fraser’s waist, palm pressing flat to his stomach as if to steady himself, and then he began to move.   
   
“Ray!” The cry echoed more loudly this time. Ray started slow, letting out quiet broken-off grunts as if the restraint were killing him. He had no idea, Fraser’s fingers curled into the paint, slippery from the shower still, warm piercing pleasure spreading from inside him all the way along his spine. His knees wanted to give way, and they might have if not for Ray holding him up. He felt as though he had been dormant and dark and someone had finally shone light into him, and he felt . . . he felt his cock on the verge of splattering thick white semen onto the wall before him at any moment.  
   
“Fraser . . .” He hadn’t realized he was thrusting too, his head thrown back, gulping in air, his hands clinging to the wall while his lower body jerked back and forth to intensify the waves of pleasure coursing through him. He was shameless. Perhaps it was the not looking at Ray that allowed for it, or perhaps he suffered from another inner ear imbalance, or else . . .  
   
Ray’s hand slipped down, closing around Fraser’s cock and squeezing tight as if he too needed something to hold onto. “Got you, Fraser, I got you,” he rasped in his ear, laying the hand of his injured arm over Fraser’s on the wall and jerking at him with the other while his hips pushed into him all the harder, magnifying tenfold the pleasure radiating from that particular spot inside him. Much had been written about that uniquely male gland – well much more than could be found in the Inuit public library, to be sure – but feeling versus reading was the difference between being struck by lightning and merely seeing the flash before your eyes.   
   
It was as though Fraser were being overwhelmed by three Rays at once in some impressive maneuver on the job like the one this morning, his body breeched and his cock apprehended and his skin dripping sweat onto the sweet-smelling patches of sticky gel. His hand twisted and gripped Ray’s, groaning with each thrust and squeeze.  
   
For all the stamina his training should have afforded him, it was not long before Fraser’s vision darkened around the edges, and before he knew it he was clutching Ray’s hand for balance. The orgasm hit him hard, the hot fluid spilling over Ray’s fist more like an eruption than anything. He twisted and shuddered, and then Ray’s fingernails were digging into his palm, his teeth latching onto the sensitive skin of Fraser’s shoulder to muffle his moans as the climax took him too.  
   
When his trembling subsided, Ray slumped heavily against Fraser’s back, a mass of heaving breath, sweat, and almost dangerously accelerated heartbeat. They slid to the floor in an exhausted heap, amid the scattered bits of uniform and Ray’s blue towel, Ray’s head still on his shoulder stinging from the marks his teeth had made. Of course, with the adrenaline flooding through his system, Fraser hardly felt the burn, not that he would have minded it.  
   
“You okay, Fraser?” Ray lifted his head after a moment, once he caught his breath. He realized his hand was still between Fraser’s legs and let go, only for the now soft flesh to tingle with an aftershock of pleasure, sore from being . . . used . . . more in the past two days than in the last ten years of his life. Fraser shifted, realizing that he was sore in . . . other places as well, but on the whole he felt euphoric and as though he had overcome some great obstacle. Intimacy, perhaps.  
   
“Yes, Ray, and you?” He managed to lean back against the cool wall and slide an arm around Ray’s back, and to his surprise his partner’s head dropped right onto his chest, his hair sticking out every which way in an unfortunate mess now.  
   
“Yeah, Fraser . . .” Ray’s forehead wrinkled and he looked uncertain. “A little dizzy and uh . . . that was kinda like a porno.”  
   
Fraser cleared his throat. He had never in truth seen a “porno” and his cheeks reddened at the idea of legions of American males watching their antics on a television screen, but he thought he understood what Ray meant.  
   
“Did I ever tell you about the time I ventured into a . . . well what you might call a very adult costume party at one of the nightclubs in town?” Handcuffs and uniforms and masks had seemed to be the norm there, and there had been quite a crowd. Perhaps . . .  
   
Ray was shaking his head, tickling Fraser’s skin with his hair. ‘Okaaaay, Fraser. I think I’ll sleep on that.”  
   
He got up to take a nap on his bed, covered by nothing but the sheet and his boxers. Fraser had no wish to get into the habit of sleeping in the afternoon, so he busied himself with picking up the clutter on the bathroom floor and upon completion of that set about seeing what he could find in the kitchen. Domestic chores were remarkably conducive to ridding the body of nervous energy, which no one could deny Fraser had a surfeit of these past days. Besides, with his dominant arm in a cast Ray was less likely than usual to bother preparing himself a meal and the last thing he needed, nutritionally speaking, was another pizza – the health benefits of pineapple aside.  
   
Fraser found some packaged spaghetti in a drawer, a jar of sauce in a cabinet, some meat in the freezer, and wonder of wonders an onion. Spaghetti was a favorite of Ray’s, and so Fraser fished for pans to brown the meat and boil the pasta. The meal was nearly ready when he looked up to see Ray emerging from the bedroom, barefoot and wearing another Chicago Bulls t-shirt and a pair of sweats, so light on his feet Fraser had not heard him in the hall.  
   
“What are you doing, Fraser?” he demanded in half-hearted annoyance, coming into the kitchen to sniff at the sauce and noodles Fraser was stirring together. “I nailed you. I’m supposed to be buying you dinner.”  
   
Fraser ducked his head, feeling himself turn as red as the sauce. He cleared his throat. “As to that – dinner, that is. On account of your injury, I took the liberty of preparing something you would find palatable. There ought to be sufficient leftovers for tomorrow. I’m afraid I have to return to the Consulate this evening. Early shift.” He was talking too fast. Standing there in the kitchen with Ray reminded of yesterday, and . . .  
   
Ray’s arm slipped around his back and he leaned close against Fraser’s side, wonderfully warm though the kitchen was hardly cold with the stove on. “Gonna ambush me tomorrow at lunch time?” He titled his face up, his expression strangely calm and . . . tender.  
   
The heat came again to Fraser’s cheeks, and he looked away. “I honestly don’t understand what’s come over me, Ray. I’ve considered illness, side effects, possibly demonic possession . . .”  
   
“Fraser . . .”  
   
“Delayed effects from a head injury I sustained when I . . .”  
   
“Fraser!”   
   
He looked up to find Ray fiddling with one of the buttons on his tunic with his good hand, and tried not to think of the first time Ray had stripped it off him in such a hurry Fraser had feared there would be buttons all over the floor by the time he finished. Of course, once Ray’s hands had found bare skin Fraser had hardly been able to care, but . . .  
   
“It’s normal,” Ray was saying. “I know I never thought I’d say that about you, but look you start sleeping with someone and all of a sudden for a while there you can’t get enough of them.”  
   
“For a while?” Fraser gave the spaghetti another stir, his heart sinking with the notion of this newfound . . . arrangement with Ray being nothing more than a passing fixation.  
   
“Until you get comfortable and realize that um . . .” Ray’s arm tightened around his back and he drew in a breath. “I love you, Fraser.” He said it so quickly the words were almost indistinguishable.   
   
“Symbolically?” Fraser continued staring at the pot to keep his heart from racing and making a fool of him. Cliché or not, he did feel an urge to melt at the words.  
   
“No,” Ray shook his head with his usual lack of patience. “Homoerectionally or whatever.”  
   
It would hardly be keeping with the spirit of the moment to laugh at Ray’s blunder, and Fraser was too giddy with delight to bother correcting him. “I see.” He leaned down where Ray was close enough to kiss, meeting his mouth softly where they stood over the spaghetti pot. “And I love you, Ray,” he was surprised to hear himself murmur.  
   
Ray let him indulge in his mouth for a full forty-eight seconds before drawing back and looking over at him with his bright eyes and hair standing on end.  
   
“So you gonna ambush me?”  
   
Fraser picked up the paper plate he had set beside the stove – Ray, it seemed, did not keep proper dishes. He spooned up a huge helping of pasta and handed it to his partner with a smile. “Well that’s the thing about an ambush, Ray, it’s unexpected.”  
   
“Hmm. Good point,” Ray conceded as he took a stool and accepted a fork, awkwardly twirling a large amount of spaghetti around the metal with his left hand. When he had it halfway to his mouth, he stopped and added, “That thing I said about you being normal? Don’t let it get to your head. You’re still a freak, Fraser – in more ways than one.”  
   
“Understood,” Fraser nodded as Ray slid the spaghetti into his mouth. His eyes fixed on a tiny smudge of red sauce at the corner at the corner of Ray’s lip, and the room grew a little warmer with the thought of leaning close and scraping it away with his tongue.


End file.
